She brands a cross
of mourning between my brows, then flees.Forge of blue
metals, nights of silenced struggles--

my heart turns madly like a flywheel.

Little one come from so far away,
brought from so far away,

at times your gaze flashes forth from
the sky.Plaint, tempest, fury's whirlpool--flares over my
heart

with no stopping you.

Wind of sepulchers wafts, obliterates, scatters your sleeping
core,uproots huge trees to the other side of her.But you,
cloudless girl, question mark of smoke, spike of wheatwere
she who went about shaping the wind with brightly lit leaves.Behind
the night mountains, a white iris of fire--

Ah! I can say
nothing aright—of all that exists!

The unease--that
you shared out my heart at knifepoint.

It is time to
follow another road, where she might not smile madly.Tempest that
drowned out bells, great roiled stir of storms--